


feel the taste of you bubble up inside me

by elephantastic



Series: whatever service I may be [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face-Fucking, Grief/Mourning, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Character Death, Overstimulation, Sub!Baze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantastic/pseuds/elephantastic
Summary: For day 3 of Spiritassassin week: hurt/comfort"I know what you need."Baze doesn't even try to suppress the tingle of excitement that runs through him, making his eyelids flutter and his pulse jump against Chirrut's thumb on his jugular.This is familiar and safe; something that Chirrut had started doing for him when they were younger, when the responsibilities of the temple weighed him down until he felt like he was drowning.It turns out that ghosts and guilt are far heavier burdens, and, with hindsight, he hadn't even begun to imagine what drowning could feel like.or have some civil disobedience and light D/s I guess...





	feel the taste of you bubble up inside me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [greymichaela ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela) for being a lovely one-woman cheer squad and beta. Seeing how I'm an asshole who nitpicks until the last second before posting, any remaining mistakes are all mine.

Baze finishes wrapping a leather thong around the knot of hair at the nape of his neck and checks his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired. His hair is still growing back, having been mostly shaved off a few months back to treat a nasty head injury, and isn't quite long enough for a full bun in the traditional style. However, the final result is satisfactory and, more importantly, recognisable; the braids stand out in stark, oiled ridges along his skull.

The engraved beads of his mourning cuff catch what little sunlight filters through the window of their shabby home. Chirrut is waiting to help him lace it up. Deft fingers linger on the fragile skin at the inside of Baze's wrist and Chirrut breaks the silence.

"It's time."

Chirrut's voice is steady and Baze, whose head is buzzing like the meat market bins on a hot day, envies him his composure. Baze has no doubt that turmoil runs in deep currents in Chirrut's belly—neither of them has been quiet about their shock and their grief in the days leading up to the funeral—but now that the time has come Chirrut isn't letting himself be anything but resolutely calm, settling into the trance-like stillness that comes just before a fight.

Baze catches the collar of Chirrut's robe, before moving in to rest their foreheads together. An attempt to breathe in some of his husband's projected serenity along with the air they're currently sharing.

Chirrut's fingers tug gently at his earlobe.

"Take heart, my love. The Force is with us. Are you ready?"

Baze grunts his assent, and they pull on boots and cloaks before heading out into the streets of NiJedha side by side.

 

They're dressed to be inconspicuous. Baze has covered both his hair and his cuff for the trip over to Faizah's. As Guardians, they would have donned pure white ceremonial garb and made their grief into something ostentatious and sacred. There is not much that is sacred left in NiJedha these days. The Empire has made it abundantly clear that there is no place for religion in the new galactic order, and what little spirituality hasn't been trampled into the red dust by heavy Imperial boots and repressive consular edicts is slowly being scraped out of NiJedha's citizenry by scarcity and the constant threat of violence.

Baze and Chirrut's only concession to the Temple ways lay in the squares of white material stuffed into their pockets, later to be used to disguise their faces. They're going to be openly defying the Empire today—precautions must be taken. Of course, if they're arrested or shot none of it will matter. Even if they aren't, one could argue how little plausible deniability is worth in the face of the Empire's conception of justice. But so it had been decided as they sat around Faizah's table, planning their petty act of resistance, and so it would be.

As they weave their way through the West Souk and into Faizah's neighbourhood, Baze starts actively scanning the crowds, monitoring their surroundings for any unusual eddy or rupture in the flow of NiJedha's streetlife. Chirrut is doing the same, quiet and focused beside him, all senses on alert. No alarm bells so far.

Faizah's home is nestled in an impasse leading off from a large pedestrian access. Chirrut steps in closer to Baze, and they both slow as they approach the corner. Baze makes eye contact with Rand, stationed at the noodle stand directly opposite the impasse's mouth, who gives him a nod to let them know all is as it should be.

Baze relays the information to Chirrut. As they turn into the alley, he mutters, "About ten people have arrived already. Dhova and Tahim are here."  
  
Tahim greets them with a reserved nod.

"We can wait three more minutes, but no more than that. Baze, the others are inside if you want to join them."

Baze gives Chirrut's fingers a squeeze and ducks through the doorway into Faizah's kitchen.

Several sticks of incense are burning on the table, but apart from that the room is painfully bare. Baze feels a twinge in his chest. He knows that Faol is going off-world after the funeral and has been packing up and redistributing Faizah's belongings—Chirrut got Faizah's red sash, Baze got a palm-sized soapstone sun-dragon he'd carved one year for Faizah's birthday. But knowing it and seeing it are two different things, and the room stripped of the messy jumble of Faol and Faizah's life together just reminds Baze of what's waiting for him in the sleeping alcove.

Baze exchanges glances with Clian and Rami who both shake their heads in response to Baze's quirked eyebrow. No sign of Nawel yet, then.

Baze is tense. He is as certain as he can be that Nawel won't do anything to compromise them, but she hasn't made any type of contact since she's been alerted to the funeral.

Baze doesn't let himself dwell on this. He knows he's only indulging these thoughts at all because he's delaying the inevitable, so he takes a deep breath and steps forward.

The sleeping alcove's curtains are drawn back, revealing Faol seated, hands in their lap and eyes fixed on Faizah's face, in their last few moments of quiet with their partner. Faizah is on the bed, her body shrouded in white.

This is not a Faizah that Baze particularly wants to remember. But the dead deserve respect, Faizah more than most, so he slots this last image of her into place next to the multitude of others he's collected over the years. Faizah, childish and unguarded, laughing at Chirrut with a pea stuck up his nose; Faizah, solemn as they take their vows of guardianship together; Faizah, brilliant and steady at Baze's right hand during their time as a cadre; Faizah, panicked, drowning in her own blood from the Imperial blaster hole in her chest. And now Faizah, dead and cold, scales dull, wrapped in an old sheet.

Emotion curdles in Baze's gut. A sour mix of guilt, anger, and bone-deep loss that rises until he can taste it at the back of his throat. He lifts his burning eyes to the ceiling and fights for composure, clenching his jaw so hard it hurts.

Since the Temple fell and his world shattered, Baze has learned to endure more than his fair share of hardship, but he doesn't think he'll ever become inured to this, to grief raking sharp, shredding claws through the softest parts of him.

He startles badly at the sound of someone else stepping into the room.

Nawel looks her usual haughty self and Baze doesn't know how he'll react if she fails to temper her infamously unpleasant disposition. But Nawel is silent as she steps up to Baze, her expression going brittle when she lays eyes on her sister's body.

Baze mercilessly shoves his own raw heart aside, and moves forward to clasp a comforting hand on Nawel's shoulder.

"It's good that you're here."

Nawel's mouth tightens, but she accepts Baze's words with a tense nod.

Faol, who hasn't so much as glanced at anyone since they walked in, inhales sharply. "Let's go."

They all take out various scraps of white fabric and tie them mask-like over their faces. Baze takes his place at Faizah's right foot, and heaves the pallet onto his shoulder in time with the others.

 

As they make their way out onto the street, Baze is taken aback by how much the crowd has grown: over twenty people in masks are waiting in solemn silence. Baze is glad to note his are not the only braids standing out proudly, and wishes, not for the first time, that his amma could be here with them.

When Baze had outlined the plan to her, her eyes had flashed. As a devout woman of old Jedhan stock, she hates the Empire's particular brand of tyrannical secularism, and the campaign of engineered cultural extermination that accompanies it, with a passion Baze thought she reserved for shoddy plant husbandry, bad manners, and the shakes that a lifetime of stim addiction had left in her late wife's hands.

But the spark had only lasted a second before her jaw firmed up with resignation; she knew she ran the risk of exposing the halfway house operating out of her bakery if she jeopardized her good standing. Hearing the vulnerable wobble in Baze's voice, she'd made a joke about youths getting to have all the fun, and stroked his hair as he cried into her shoulder.

The street is busy but not crowded, and their silent procession cuts through the bustle like a bantha through the dunes. Out of the corner of his eye, Baze sees people shaking their heads, some of them retreating into the relative safety of houses and storefronts, responding to a now deeply ingrained instinct that correlates acts of resistance with lethal violence. But he also catches fingers being pressed to chins in the traditional gesture of salute to the dead, and even a few people silently falling into step with them.

Baze allows himself a little hope. The further they get and the more momentum they gain, the more difficult it gets for them to be stopped when the Imps finally show up. Luckily they don't have far to go. Faizah's quarter gives directly onto the stairs leading down to the burning grounds that cling onto the West side of the NiJedhan plateau. The trip shouldn't take more than ten minutes, total.

He can already make out the monumental door in the city's thick outer wall and Azahlo's striped montrals. As soon as Azahlo catches sight of the white flag that Dhova, who is striding out in front, waves in signal, she knocks on the metal surface. A team of four materialises to pry the door open and, though Baze can't see them, he knows another four are pushing from the other side.

Baze's grip on Faizah's pallet grows white-knuckled. These doors haven't opened in over five years now. When Clian and Baze had come the night before last to tinker the incinerator back to life and connect it to a couple of fuel pods, they'd used the smaller maintenance entrance to access the burning grounds. Trying to open the ceremonial doors would have been madness, so on their way out they'd simply picked the imposing padlock and thoroughly oiled the hinges, before vanishing back into NiJedha's night.

The doors inch open in an almighty screech of complaining metal that doesn't quite muffle the noises of surprise from the people behind him. Baze cranes his neck, only to be stunned by the size of the crowd they've amassed. They're lucky as a sabacc player holding an Idiot's Array that the main door has chosen to cooperate because they were never going to fit that many people through the maintenance entrance.

The left panel seems to have stuck fast despite Azahlo's best efforts, but the gap is wide enough for them to pass through with the pallet. They make their way down the shallow steps carved into the mesa's face, Baze starting to feel the strain of keeping the pallet level in his arms and shoulders.

An amplified voice echoes from back of the procession, "Halt! You are in violation of..." The voice trails off, the speaker obviously realising that without being able to impose a physical barrier between the crowd and its goal, their shouting is wholly ineffectual.

None of them so much as break their stride as they hit the flat floor of the burning grounds. White-masked figures herd the crowd into spreading out to form a barrier behind the pall-bearers, and give them time to get to the incinerator.

They carefully lower Faizah's body into the tank and Faol steps forward.

"Faizah El-Alaoui. Sister, lover, Guardian, rebel. We remember you and commit your body to the desert."

Simple words, but time-worn and weighted with tradition. They kiss her brow and nod to Clian, who is hovering next to the controls.

By now, the Imps have reached the bottom of the stairs. They try again: "You are in violation of article 156-1 of the Imperial Code. All deaths must be recorded at the Consular Office and ceremonies held at the Funeral Centre."

The next words are drowned out by the wave of disapproving tongue clicks and heckles that goes around the crowd, which instead of parting for the Imps trying to shoulder their way through to the incinerator, seems to bristle and condense.

The Imps seem at a loss as to what to do. In the era of Saw Gerrera’s more aggressive brand of resistance they hardly know how to deal with grumpy yet civil disobedience, and are reluctant to respond with outright violence. Baze, ever the strategist, had been counting on this. They’d deliberately chosen a day when Geb Lazar was on duty. The captain is a conscientious bootlicker, and as such is more likely to ask questions first and shoot later.

Or at least wait for approval from the administrator, which should swing the odds in their favour. Miri Oralius is a shrewd woman who has been managing tensions in NiJedha expertly; insidiously playing on the city's sense of insecurity, painting Saw and his rebels with a tar brush and letting them tear out their own popular support with every marketplace shoot-out and every dead child. Baze is trusting in Oralius to be smart enough to know that if she reacts to this with violence, she’ll fuck herself over. Especially with this kind of turnout.

The sound of the incinerator powering up breaks through the anxious, repetitive stream of Baze's consciousness.

Now what?

The fuel isn't going to last long, he knows. None of them were under any illusion that they were going to be allowed to complete the funeral rites properly, and for all their planning they hadn't really let themselves hope they'd get this far.

As the moment of uncertainty stretches, a flash of resentment skitters under Baze's skin. Faizah deserved a ceremony fit for a Guardian, and instead she gets this slapdash excuse for—

A single voice rises to challenge the whoosh of the machines and the clanking of the Imps uncomfortably shifting around in their beetle uniforms. A high note held resolute, a call that demands an answer.

Baze is taken aback and turns to see that someone has climbed onto a pair of shoulders, hoisting themselves above the assembled mourners. A brief ripple of confusion goes around the crowd, but reflex rapidly takes over and people start joining in until the air surrounding Baze is rich and heavy with harmonies. Baze pulls off his mask and opens his mouth.

Everyone stops for a collective intake of breath. Then following the lead of that one clear voice, they launch into song.

This is a chant made for big crowds, a cacophonous polyphony that hasn't resonated through the Holy City in years. The melody crests in waves, sometimes discordant where it should be smooth, but intense and proud and earth-shaking. Chirrut is singing too, but he threads his arm through Baze's and Baze pulls him close, knowing this much noise is overwhelming for him.

This is not a song for the dead. It does not belong to any of Jedha's many religions. It is a song that belongs wholly to NiJedha, traditionally sung during the _Tǒngyī_ Festival that celebrates the Holy City's history as an island of peace in the middle of religious conflict. Of course the festival is now forbidden, along with any gathering or festival of more than twenty people, under the guise of 'quelling extremism'.

Baze is crying again. His singing falters, but he wipes his nose furiously on his sleeve, gulps down the grief clogging his throat, and flings his voice back out there.

There is not much that is sacred left in NiJedha these days, and Baze no longer believes in the Force. But here, surrounded by a living wall of sound, he finds that he cannot—will not—deny the force of others. All these Jedhans don't know what Faizah died for, but here they are, honouring the memory of a former Guardian by singing an ode to their city's religious plurality. This feels powerful, this feels _dangerous_. And so, it cannot last.

A shot is fired and the moment splinters as the melody breaks apart around a couple of screams. Baze's instincts kick in and he pulls Chirrut behind the dubious cover of a Cathar's broad back. It only takes him a second to assess the situation, the screams are more fear than pain.

Chirrut is focused and ready at his side. Baze updates him with a curt, "They're firing into the air, dispersing the crowd. Time to go."

Chirrut nods and allows Baze to tow him through the panicked, suffocating press of bodies stampeding back up the stairs, his staff clicking efficiently against the lip of every step.

Once they're a respectable distance away from the gates they dispose of their masks in an alleyway.

Before Baze can turn away, Chirrut hooks two fingers into his belt.

"Are you okay?"

"I'll have to be," Baze replies.

Chirrut's brow furrows, but he keeps the comment he obviously wants to make behind his teeth and lets him go.

Emerging from the other end of the narrow street, they slow their pace down to a purposeful meander. Chirrut stops to chat up vendors and acquaintances alike, buying supplies for their dinner, while Baze hovers a step or so behind him, compulsively checking for any sign of a tail.

When he's satisfied that they're in the clear, he signals Chirrut and they strike out for home.

 

As they climb the stairs to their tiny flat Chirrut is quiet, sensing that Baze wants to be left to stew. But Baze can feel the crackling energy radiating off him, still high on adrenaline and success.

Baze can't sort out the snarled knot of emotion in his own chest. He's frantically trying to hold on to the sense of certainty he'd felt in the crowd, but it's slipping through his fingers like fine sand. Faizah is still dead and Baze is still responsible. And what does it say about their chances that _this_ was their only successful operation in months? He feels unspeakably weary, but his brain stubbornly refuses to shut the fuck up.

He steps out of his shoes and stomps off to make tea, just for sake of settling his unsteady hands.

This has gone as well as could be expected. Chirrut is safe, Faol is going off-world, it's done, it's done.

A sharp pain in the meat of his thumb causes him to drop a spoon with a loud clatter and swear: he's burned himself on the kettle.

"Baze, are you alright?" Chirrut asks immediately.

Baze grunts in response.

Chirrut sighs. "Sit for me, love. Let me do your hair."

Baze sinks to the floor, cross-legged with his shoulders cradled by Chirrut's open knees. Chirrut carefully unwinds the leather tie and teases the tight strands of Baze's braids apart. Baze's disquiet eases along with the pressure on his scalp as Chirrut's hands delve into his hair, firmly massaging sore skin. As always, Chirrut's touch helps him get a handle on the anxious thoughts whirling around the inside of his skull like angry dust devils.

Without warning, Chirrut's hand becomes a fist and he pulls Baze's head back over his thigh. Inquisitive fingers run down the unhappy creases in Baze's forehead, trace the bags under his eyes, the lines around his mouth that today speak more of strain than of smiling, before coming to curl possessive around his throat.

Baze can't help an involuntary swallow that makes his throat bob under Chirrut's touch. All casualness instantly vanishes from Chirrut's demeanour and, when he speaks, his voice has shifted in timbre, growing sure and intimate.

"I know what you need."

He leans in and Baze tips his face even further back, angling for a kiss. But Chirrut stops a handsbreadth away so that his words ghost over Baze's uptilted chin when he says, "You'll have to earn that, I think. Why don't you go take a shower, get yourself nice and clean for me. And then let me take care of you."

Baze doesn't even try to suppress the tingle of excitement that runs through him, making his eyelids flutter and his pulse jump against Chirrut's thumb on his jugular.

"Yes, please," he breathes.

Chirrut smiles and takes his hands away. "Go, then."

In the 'fresher on the landing, Baze slips into the easy routine of preparing his body and tries to relax. This is familiar and safe; something that Chirrut had started doing for him when they were younger, when the responsibilities of the temple weighed him down until he felt like he was drowning.

It turns out that ghosts and guilt are far heavier burdens, and, with hindsight, he hadn't even begun to imagine what drowning could feel like.

He gets out of the shower and edges back into their flat in a towel, finding the lights dimmed and Chirrut waiting for him.

"Hands on your head."

Starting at his bent elbows, Chirrut runs his palms all the way down Baze's exposed underarms and sides. When he reaches Baze's hips, his hands turn grasping, kneading handfuls of the soft layer of fat there, the way his fingers dig in making Baze gasp and arch his back a little.

Chirrut steps in closer, his fingertips following the cut of Baze's hip until they're lingering warm and low on his stomach. Baze's breathing quickens slightly, but Chirrut only goes as far as the edges of his towel, pulling it open and letting it drop at their feet. Then he draws back, teasing, and curves his fingers around the slope of Baze's buttocks to brush the sensitive skin at the very top of his thighs. Baze shivers and Chirrut relents, settling his thumbs in the deep dimples that bracket the bottom of Baze's spine.

"How are you feeling, my light?"

"Good," Baze breathes on a deep exhale.

He can feel himself getting pulled out of his head and shrinking down to exist only within the confines of Chirrut's touch.

Chirrut, clearly satisfied by this response, resumes his exploration. His thumbs are now following the cleft of Baze's spine with his fingers feathered out on his back either side. When he reaches Baze's shoulder blades he pauses, delicately tracing the lines of him.

"Force, I love your shoulders."

He keeps going until he can press a thumb into the dip at the base of Baze's skull, exposed by the messy bun Baze favours in the shower. “I love the shape of your head,” he whispers. A knuckle taps gently on Baze’s temple and Baze closes his eyes, leaning into Chirrut’s hands. “And the mind inside, always going, spinning relentlessly. Tell me how you feel, my love.”

“Good,” Baze sighs again. “Warm.”

Chirrut breathes amused affection across his skin and steps away. “Come here.”

Still fully clothed, he goes to his knees on the bed and gestures to the space in front of him.

"Kneel for me."

Baze follows obediently. Once he has settled, Chirrut grips his wrist, brings his hand to his face, and licks a few broad, wet stripes up Baze's palm before releasing him.

"Touch yourself."

Baze shudders as he takes himself in hand, eyes on his lover. Despite the obvious bulge in his loose trousers, Chirrut's posture is easy, hands open and relaxed on his thighs. Only the keen tilt of his head betrays how entirely focused he is on the slick sounds of Baze's hand stroking his cock, the telling hitches in his breathing.

Those who make the mistake of thinking Chirrut flighty and inconstant fail to account for the ironclad force of his will. As a Guardian, Chirrut has worked hard to achieve mastery of both body and mind, but this is not what makes Baze want to touch his forehead to the ground, offering himself up to Chirrut in any way he would care to have him.

Something indomitable has always burned in Chirrut; in the fledgling boy who dragged himself halfway across a desert moon following the whispers of the Force; in the razor-sharp young man who rose through the ranks to become one of the Order's brightest stars; in the homeless, bereft monk who stops at nothing to keep hope and rebellion alive in the shadow of his ruined temple.

Yes, this spark is eminently worthy of worship, and while Chirrut's self-control may be flawless, Baze is weak and wants to touch.

"Chirrut, please," he begs quietly.

"Impatient today, hmmm? That's good—so am I. Hands behind your back."

Baze complies immediately and watches, rapt, as Chirrut unfastens his shirt, letting it fall open on his chest. He pops the buttons on his trousers until he has enough leeway to slide a hand under the waistband of his underwear and grip his dick, indolently stroking himself to full hardness.

Baze's mouth is watering in anticipation. He swallows and knows he's betrayed himself for the second time that evening by the wolfish smile that spreads across Chirrut's face.

Chirrut rises up onto his knees, pushing his clothing a little further down his hips to free his flushed erection. Then he shuffles closer until his spread knees just barely bracket Baze's and leans back lazily on both hands, the motion making his shirt fall open enough to reveal an uninterrupted and tantalising sliver of skin from the top of his thighs up to the line of his throat. His cock curves gracefully against his stomach, and Baze's skin feels tight with desire.

"You may use your mouth. Your hands stay behind your back."

Baze groans gratefully and folds forward to bury his nose in the dark hair at Chirrut's groin. He mouths at the base of Chirrut's cock then licks his way up to close his lips around the head, running his tongue around the stretched edges of Chirrut's foreskin and into his slit. Chirrut inhales deeply; Baze looks up to see him with his head thrown back, teeth grit against a moan, the muscles in his belly twitching minutely with every curl of Baze's tongue, and glows with satisfaction.

He pulls off with a lewd pop and rubs his beard gently against Chirrut's balls and inner thighs, making him jerk.

"I'm not in the mood to be teased, Baze."

Chirrut's voice is sharp as he sits up, fisting one hand in Baze's hair to tug him back into place and the other around his dick to rub it demandingly along the seam of Baze's mouth. Baze opens for him and Chirrut immediately pushes him down until Baze's lips hit the curl of his fingers, then pulls him back up again. Baze closes his eyes and enthusiastically works his tongue into the movement as Chirrut sets him a languid but steady rhythm.

"Are you ready for more?"

Baze moans in reply and pulls against Chirrut's hold to try and fit more of him into his mouth.

Chirrut huffs a laugh and releases his cock. He braces a hand on the bed behind him again and uses the leverage to roll his hips up, other hand still tangled in Baze's hair, holding him still while he fucks up into Baze's willing mouth.

Shallow, testing thrusts quickly turn rough, and it's all Baze can do to relax his throat and take them. But Chirrut is relentless, and fat tears dribble down Baze's face to mix with the mess of saliva and pre-come smeared over his lips and chin.

Baze's mind finally quietens as pure, unremitting sensation takes over. He's grounded and hyper-aware of his half-hard cock trapped against his stomach, the strain of the muscles in the backs of his thighs and ass, the dull ache in his jaw from the way he's stretched around Chirrut's girth.

Chirrut comes on a noise that sounds almost angry, yanking Baze's mouth off his cock to paint his lips, cheeks and beard with spend.

Baze is gasping for breath and trembling, unable to control the convulsive movements of his throat. Chirrut seems unconcerned, keeping Baze bent in half as he leisurely strokes himself through the last aftershocks of his orgasm. At last, he opens his eyes and orders, "Clean me up." Baze licks his bruised lips and stretches forward to gently lap at the come crowning Chirrut's cock.

After a moment, Chirrut whispers, "I think you've earned that reward."

He pulls Baze up and finally, finally kisses him. Baze is too far gone to respond properly, but he welcomes Chirrut's tongue without reservation.

"You're doing so well, love. Do you want the blindfold?" Chirrut asks, the hand in Baze's hair sliding down to cup his face.

Baze nods against Chirrut's palm. He has never been a man of many words, brought up by two women who did not waste them. But this is different, and the further he slips into this state of calm, floating submission, the more speech evades him.

He has not been told to move, and so he does not as Chirrut pulls Baze's hair free of its already loosened bun, letting it fall in waves around his shoulders, and carefully ties a sash over his eyes in a flat knot.

"You can let go of your hands, lay down on your back."

As Chirrut shucks his clothes, Baze goes jerkily, his limbs shaky and uncooperative. The blindfold is disorienting and his other senses are going into overdrive to try and compensate. But he settles quickly, automatically reaching his hands up to grip the headboard.

Chirrut kneels between Baze's spread legs and leans over to run questing fingers down the bulge of Baze's triceps. He hums consideringly before bowing to kiss the inside of Baze's bent knee.

"You are well-trained, my love, but tonight I'd like to do things a little differently." Baze feels the brush of Chirrut's breath on his skin as he orders quietly, "Hold yourself open for me."

All of Baze's mental faculties screech to an abrupt halt, but the part of him that runs on instinct has him tilting his hips down and hooking his hands under his thighs, responding to the irresistible pull of Chirrut's voice.

Chirrut's hums again—a hungry, approving sound. He strokes two fingers over the tight entrance to Baze's body, while his other hand comes up to cover Baze's on his thigh and spread him wider still. Baze is completely exposed and yet unable or unwilling to feel any shame for it. Especially when Chirrut's tongue dips between his splayed fingers, laving over Baze's hole.

Baze knows these games well by now, but these sudden changes in pace never fail to make him dizzy. Chirrut's shifts between utter selfishness and patient dedication to Baze and his pleasure remain as intoxicating as they are unpredictable. He groans desperate and deep in his chest as Chirrut fastens his lips around the infinitely sensitive skin of his perineum and applies the gentlest of suction.

Chirrut is greedy with his hands. He knows every intimate nook and crevice of Baze's body and yet never tires of exploring them anew; tracing softly over the drawn-up skin of Baze's balls and through the sweat collecting at the crease of his thigh; running his thumb over Baze's rim, delicate skin over clenching muscle where Chirrut's fingers disappear into slick heat. Each touch is frankly possessive in a way that makes Baze feel electric and shivery.

Baze doesn't know how long Chirrut makes him toe the line of impending orgasm, cock wet and straining against his stomach, beloved fingers deep inside him rubbing on his prostate. His body is aching for release, but he feels centered, in control. He's focused on his laboured breathing, anchored by the blunt points of pain where his fingers are digging into his own thighs hard enough to bruise.

Although Baze has jettisoned most of the physical training associated with Guardianship along with his faith, this is something Chirrut has not let him forget. Nor would he want to. They'd come up with these exercises together to practice the absolute mental and physical control required for zama-shiwo. Perhaps not what the Masters had had in mind when they'd suggested that the initiates 'find their own path towards balance'. But Baze and Chirrut had delighted in bringing each other to the edge and keeping themselves there first for minutes and then, as they progressed, for infinitely longer; entire evenings disappearing into their wild struggle for pleasure and skin made slippery by exertion.

Chirrut slides his fingers out and Baze whines at the sudden emptiness. Chirrut gentles him, stroking his inner thigh with firm, grounding touches.

"It's okay, love. I have you. Turn over."

Baze exhales, delirious and thready, but rolls onto his stomach and flattens his palms on the mattress on either side of his head.

Over the deafening beat of his heart in his ears Baze hears the click of the lube cap and the wet sound of Chirrut conscientiously slicking himself up. Then Chirrut's hands are at the back of his knees, pushing them apart so he can settle in tight behind him, his thighs flush against the back of Baze's, holding him wide and open.

Chirrut is hard and ready again, and he doesn't tease which Baze is grateful for. He pushes into him, smooth and unhesitating, until his hips are firmly fitted to the curve of Baze's ass. Before Baze can hope to catch his breath, he pulls almost all the way back out, the ridge of his cockhead catching fantastically on the inside of Baze's rim, and then a measured, interminable slide back in.

Chirrut supports himself with one hand at Baze's waist, the other braced against the whorls of his shoulder blade, using his whole weight to press Baze into the mattress. Like this, Baze knows Chirrut can feel every heaving expansion of his ribs as he struggles to draw breath. Baze can picture him long and lithe, muscles rippling with the effort of these slow, perfectly controlled thrusts, enough to feed the fire in Baze's gut, but not enough to bring him off.

Baze hips are slightly lifted off the bed and the unsatisfying, barely there drag of his swollen cock across the covers provides a maddening counterpoint to the deep throb of Chirrut against his insides. Baze is sobbing with it, body coiled tight and tense, riding an edge of overstimulation so acute as to almost tip pleasure into pain. Chirrut knows exactly what he's doing and keeps up his excruciating pace; forcing Baze to surrender everything until he is full of Chirrut and only Chirrut.

Without breaking his rhythm, Chirrut shifts his hands to the mattress, and lowers his head to bite at the juncture of Baze's neck and shoulder. He applies himself to the task of marking Baze up here too, every bruise sucked into his lover's nape serving to punctuate the filthy, glorious litany of praise and acceptance he's whispering into Baze's hair.

Chirrut's words are uncompromising and he uses them to devastating effect. He tells Baze all the things that he will not hear when his defenses are up; folds them into his skin so that Baze will be unable shake the truth of them, even after he has left this fevered trance of pleasure and submission.

"You are fallible, beloved, as are we all. The universe is unfathomably full, and even your broad shoulders cannot carry its weight. There is no shame in it."

He speeds up and Baze moans brokenly. Chirrut’s sharp teeth nip his earlobe, breath thundering hot in his ear.

"My Baze, you make me so completely selfish. Do you have any idea how good you feel like this? Undone and vulnerable and _mine_."

He licks a path along the sticky valley of Baze's spine, and his breath hitches when Baze presses his hips back against him.

"When we were young, you thought your body was made for worship, now you think it is made for war. But I know the truth, and the fact is your body is made for this. For my pleasure."

His voice cracks on the last word; even Chirrut's self-control is finite. He flattens a hand against Baze's stomach and plasters himself to Baze's back, dragging in ragged breaths in time to the now frenzied slap of skin on skin. He presses his forehead in between Baze's shoulder blades, a blazing hot point of contact, as his hips stutter and he spills inside him with a choked groan.

Baze's head is spinning and he forgets himself, craning his neck and tugging Chirrut forward into a sloppy kiss. Chirrut laughs into his mouth, then props himself up on one hand and pulls out. He rubs the head of his cock lightly against Baze's hole then suddenly shoves himself all the way back in. Baze thrashes, crying out high and thin. Chirrut holds him down, forearm braced against his back, and does it again, and again.

"Ask for it, my light."

Baze squirms and babbles, "Chirrut please, please touch me. I can't take it anymore. _Please_ , Chirrut."

Chirrut rewards him immediately by rolling him over and filling him up again with two fingers. He strokes Baze's neglected cock with a firm hand, wrist twisting wickedly on the upstroke.

Chirrut makes a low, bitten-off noise. "Stars, Baze. You're so wet inside… The things you let me do to you. You've been so good for me, you can let go now."

The orgasm building in the pit of Baze's belly feels monumental, and it crests violently in time to Chirrut's words. Baze covers his face with shaking hands, an unsuccessful attempt to stifle the shocked cry that tears itself from his throat, as he spends in thick spurts all over Chirrut's fist, and his own stomach and chest. His breath comes in little, bleating pants, his entire body wracked by spasm after helpless spasm.

Chirrut's hands still and he lets Baze's tremors abate, fingers buried inside him. Then he pulls out carefully and reaches for Baze, who can't help but twitch away, sensitive and strung-out.

Chirrut pauses. "Am I alright to touch you, my love?"

Baze nods. He's not recalcitrant just over-stimulated.

"Baze, I'm going to need you to speak."

Baze makes a valiant effort to find his tongue and slurs, "Yes, sorry."

"No need to apologise, dear one. I just wanted to be sure."

Chirrut gently strokes his thighs and sides, then reaches up to cradle Baze's face, his voice rueful and more than a little wondering.

"I've made a mess of you. I'm going to step away for a moment to get some water, is that all right?"

Baze nods into his palms and soon Chirrut is back, hands smelling of soap, and unties the blindfold. "Eyes closed for a while," he directs.

He runs his thumbs under Baze's eyes, still gummy with overworked tears, before brushing a feather-light kiss to each eyelid and murmuring into the space between their faces, "You did so well. My Baze, my beloved."

He dips the washcloth in the basin and, starting with his face, gently and methodically cleans Baze up, lingering on his neck where hair has stuck to his skin in sweaty snarls. The press of the cloth against patchy bruises shaped like Chirrut's mouth sends a thrill through the calm haze enveloping Baze's mind.

Chirrut showers Baze with praise, using and abusing pet names all the while, his voice taking on the awed quality it does every time they do this, and Baze soaks it all up like the Temple gardens used to do with Jedha's summer rains.

Chirrut pulls off the top sheet he'd laid out to catch the mess and manhandles Baze under the covers. He curls close around Baze's back, an unbroken, comforting blanket of skin-on-skin contact. Baze revels in the sated heaviness of his limbs and eyelids, the glow of quiet, content achievement warming him from the inside out.

A beat of silence passes before Chirrut says, voice serious and barely above a whisper, "I wish I could give this to you more often. I wish you did not have such a burden to carry—so much grief to bear. But hear me Baze when I say that we are all fighting this war willingly, with our eyes and hearts open to the price. You cannot hold yourself responsible for every one of us who falls victim to it."

Chirrut's words sink into Baze's storm-tossed soul like a benison. He doesn't have the energy to feel resentful towards Chirrut for waiting for this engineered moment of weakness to attack. He knows in a detached sort of way that the crushing demons of guilt and sorrow will come roaring back all too soon. So, just for now, Baze laces his fingers through Chirrut's where they lay over his heart, and lets himself rest easy.

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for young guardians using edging as zama-shiwo training goes to [erebones ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones) who wrote a ficlet [here](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/159306796900/36-total-control-chirrut-holds-his-breath-for-a) and made my brain explode.
> 
> Also, if you're like me and enjoy hickeys on napes you should do yourself a favour and go check out [this piece of art](http://naniiebim.tumblr.com/post/159859444993/naniiebimworks-naniiebimworks-baze-malbus) by naniiebim.
> 
> Google told me that _tǒngyī_ means 'unity' in Mandarin, hopefully I have not been mislead.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are love, I crave validation almost as much as our boy Baze.


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